Harry, Perry and Ed
by CSI Clue
Summary: Perry needs a secretary; Harry thinks she may have something to hide.
1. Chapter 1

HARRY

So Perry said we needed someone part time for the office. I don't know what the fuck he's talking about since he doesn't actually _have _an office. That is, a place where people walk in and talk to him about doing the stuff he does. Cell phones are Perry's mode of conducting business, but ever since the last case business has picked up, and I don't mind because working with Perry sure as hell beats heading back to New York and a ratty apartment in Queens.

I'm not kidding about the ratty part, either.

"We need someone to handle the paperwork," Perry said, "Someone who can manage a fucking date book and not leave post-it notes on my dry-cleaning, which for your information Harry is NOT a bulletin board even though it's hanging on the wall."

Sheesh, I was only trying to be practical. The cleaning was there, the message was in my hand—seemed pretty clear he'd be picking both up at the same time, right? Win/win for everyone.

Where was I? Oh right, part-timer. So Perry contacts an employment agency, one of those temp places with a godzillion phones and an automated system that could drive you to jump off the Sears Tower thanks to the Tony Orlando muzak—nothing against the guy but the only yellow ribbon I'm going to be tying is around my neck before I leap—and they promise to send over three or four applicants the next day.

No guys, Perry warns them. I'm guessing he doesn't want to A) deal with temptation or B) deal with fagophobia. Fair enough.

In case you're wondering what happened to Harmony, here's where I tell you that she decided to go back to Indiana for good. Seems that once Pop kicked it—which was about a month after her sister's funeral and Perry's little bitchslapping visit to dear old dad—and the bastard left her not only the house but a hefty collection of insurance policies he'd saved up.

Good for Harmony, but not so good for us, in the 'us' sense of being together. We did the usual bullshit thing of promising to call and write, but in the end, as we got drunk the night before her flight out, we both knew it was over.

Yeah it hurts, even a year later. That's all you need to know, thank you very much.

Anyway, so Perry was less of a bitch about things for a few weeks after that, because he's sensitive that way, and then he starts pushing me to get my license. Now as an employee of a PI, I'm getting those six thousand mandatory hours of experience done, but we are talking something like three years to go—maybe longer because I severely lack the college degree in something useful, like Criminal Justice. Still, according to the state I can qualify if I keep my nose clean, do the paperwork and pass the exam. Thank God all New York had on me were a few misdemeanors—one felony and I'd be screwed.

So it's sort of a good thing nobody but Perry knows about all the people I've shot, huh?

PERRY

Harry Lockhart used to be the bane of my existence. I've downgraded him to pain in the ass because despite himself, the idiot doesn't have a malicious bone in his body. He doesn't know HOW to be malicious, although he's picked up the fine art of being bitchy from yours truly.

Not that I let him get away with it much; he owes me, and he knows it. Call me a soft touch, but letting Harry loose on the streets of LA by himself is like throwing a puppy under an eighteen wheeler , which is to say, bad for traffic. He's got good instincts for investigation; he's nosy and picks up on details—usually the wrong ones but it's a start—and best of all nobody credits him with any intelligence, which is a factor I can use in this business. That's why I decided to sponsor him for a while and see if I can make the investment pay off.

Yes he's still a fuck-up, but he's getting better—or else the little cretin is wearing me down. We've cleaned up his wardrobe, gotten him some time at the firing range, gotten him a handgun permit and enrolled him in CJ courses at the community college. Harry has gone along with this because he knows the alternative is a one-way ticket back to the Big Apple on standby.

He's hopeless with numbers, but shows some promise with everything else, which is good. And Harry's laid off most of the faggot jokes and manages not to offend most of our clients which helps. I've had him doing basic surveillance for nearly half a year now and he's reasonable at it. The little idiot also has a knack for schmoozing receptionists and switchboard operators, which goes to show that everyone's got hidden talents I guess.

Too bad about Harmony. That is, that they broke up. To be honest, I didn't see it lasting long anyway—Harry was seeing her through those teenage lenses, all misty and romantic, and Harmony knew she was eventually going to burst his bubble in more ways than one. Still, she's a bright woman, and it's good to see that she got the hell out of Lalaland before the bitterness set in permanently. Daddy left her enough to do pretty much whatever the hell she wants, and although Harry doesn't know it, I keep tabs on her, just to make sure things are going well.

Hey, she saved my life, and it's worth my while to remember little things like that.

Anyway, the priority now is to find someone to manage paperwork before I lose my mind. It was annoying enough to keep track of matters myself, but now that I'm mentoring Harry through the job I don't have time to keep the appointments, court dates, filings, information databases, and case files as up to date as I'd like. It's time to bring in some nice, matronly secretarial school graduate to stop Harry from charging lunches at Spagos and keep track of when my next massage is.

Someone sensible and immune to flirtations of any kind, because the last thing I need is another major distraction for either Harry or me. A spinster girl Friday with nine cats all named for soap opera characters and an addiction to Sudoku would be just fine. Oh, and if she makes a decent espresso, that would help smooth the deal over the top.

ED

So I show up at the address the agency gave me, and it was a nice place, so clearly Mr. Van Shrike has money, which is good. The man who let me in wasn't Mr. Van Shrike, but he was polite, and showed me into a living room where two other girls were waiting.

I knew them: Shelli and Julie, both long on the bitchy side and determined to make it big by sleeping into money. Shelli's dream is to marry a has-been star and live the trophy-wife life. She can get away with it if she can find someone deaf, I guess. Julie is willing to negotiate and I suspect her dates often have a financial transaction to them at some point in the evening.

But they both needed a day job too, and this offer of minor bookkeeping/receptionist and office assistant looked pretty good to all of us, so we sat there not making small talk and waited.

Me, I'm in it for the experience. My dad told me he'd support me in anything I wanted to do with one big stipulation, and since it was something I could completely agree with, not a problem. I got up after a few minutes and wandered over to one of the bookcases to check out Mr. Van Shrike's literary tastes.

Some Stendahl, some guides to wine, an early biography of Reid Wallace. I picked that out and took it back to my seat to skim through while Shelli was called into the next room for her interview.

I noticed the other man was hanging around, pretending to be busy, but he was keeping an eye on us—well, mostly on Julie's legs. He was dark-eyed and missing part of a finger on his left hand, which seemed kind of sinister.

The Wallace bio was good, though, and I got into it. By the time the dark-haired guy called my name I was regretting that I couldn't borrow it from Mr. Van Shrike unless I got the job.

When I sat down opposite the blonde man—Mr. Perry Van Shrike- I knew two things right away: he wasn't going to hire either Shellie or Julie, and that he was in a bad mood.

I reached into my purse and handed him a bottled water I had there.

"What's that for?" he asked. Nice voice, low, well-modulated.

Gay.

"You're getting a headache and that won't help my interview," I told him. "You probably could use some water."

He _almost_ smiled at that, so I felt my chances go up, even though he set the water aside.

"Miss Ed . . . Ragozy?"

"Edwina," I told him. "I go by Ed because anything's better."

"I can see that," he nodded. "Okay, you have my attention; why should I hire you?" He sat back, waiting for a show, but I went with honest, because I really _did_ want the job.

"You're going to hire me, Mr. Van Shrike, because I _don't_ have an Equity card, a screenplay, or novel. I have no intention of taking this job just to dump it three months from now when the open casting calls for Christmas commercials hit _Variety_. I'm a good worker, I have the skills you need, and I'm willing to take less than the other two candidates if you have an investment plan with your offer."

He stared at me, but I'm used to those sorts of contests, and just waited him out. Finally he blinked a little. "Anything else?" Mr. Van Shrike asked, and that was when I knew I had it.

"Not really. I like your taste in literature. Do _you_ have any questions?"

"Can you be here at eight tomorrow morning?"

"Yes sir," I told him, and he almost rolled his eyes.

"Yea Gods, manners as well; tell me, are there any more at home like you, Miss Ragozy?"

"Just 'Ed' will do, Mr. Van Shrike, and no—I'm the only one besides my dear old dad."

"Ragozy . . . as in Milos Ragozy, the restauranteur?"

I nodded; lying, especially to a detective would have been dumb. Besides, it would have come out sooner or later anyway. Dad's pretty well-known.

"Okay then, show up at eight tomorrow and I'll get you started. You'll need to bring ID and get fingerprinted—you have no objection to that, right?"

"None at all. Dress code?"

"Dressy casual; I have no objection to slacks if they're office appropriate, and sandals only if they have a heel. Your jewelry is up to you, but minimum is best, and the rest we can work out as we go," he fired off, and I tried not to smile because it's so . . . . Precise.

I figure I'm off to a good start.


	2. Chapter 2

HARRY

So Perry hired girl with the book in her hands, which I should have seen coming, I guess. The other two were very LA; all tanned legs and teeth so white I'm betting they glowed in the dark. There's something about this coast that makes it an imperative for women to sandblast their teeth. They're all like that.

Anyway, we ended up with the short one. And by short I mean, you know, short—like, five two, maybe. She's pretty, but not in an LA way either. You know how when guys are describing a woman to somebody they do that curves in the air hand move? Well this one fits that shape, but with more inner curve at the waist. In New York we'd call it stacked, but here, it's I dunno, just not the usual.

So I introduced myself, and she shook my hand, told me her name is Ed Ragozy.

Ed? I check again, just to see if there's something I missed, because she sure as hell didn't look like she was a cross-dresser, although what do_ I_ know? In this town, anything's possible.

She must be used to the reaction because she explained it's for Edwina, which yeah, now I get it, and yes, Ed's a hell of a lot better. This is coming from a guy who will never go by 'Harold' if he can help it.

"You work for Mr. Van Shrike as well, Mr. Lockhart?" Ed asked me, and I nodded as fast as I could. No point in letting her know I was pretty much Perry's coffee boy just yet, I mean.

"Yeah, he and I, we pretty much do it all. Together. Not—together together. Just him and me professionally. Working. Not dating. I'm not gay."

Ohyeah, I was Mr. Smooth there, but give me a break; in LA you never know who's boning who and the sooner our little Gal Friday understood the truth the better. Just because Perry nagged me about haircuts and insisted I wear polo shirts didn't mean we were picking out window treatments.

"Me either," Ed told me, and I nodded. Good to know. I mean, she's not my type, but she wasn't exactly hard to look at, in a construction workers whistling at her way. Fuck, I sound like I'm making her out to be chunky or something and she isn't. Ed's just not your standard Californa beach bunny, okay? She's curvy, like Betty Boop.

Betty Boop with a regular sized head and a human voice.

Anyway, I'm tickled as hell by the whole 'Mr. Lockhart' thing because there's no way in fucking hell that Perry is ever going to call me that, and Ed probably won't either once she figures out that I'm not an official detective, but for the moment it's nice NOT to be on the very bottom of the totem pole. I congratulate her on getting the job and once she's out the door I hightail it over to Perry and wait for him to say something.

"So?" when he fails to look up from his laptop. Perry is at his most annoying when he's ignoring you. Or me, or anybody, really. Swear to God he's like every bank clerk I've ever had to deal with.

"So what? She knows all the programs I need her to use, she's got excellent credit and no criminal record," Perry sighs. "Not that I need your approval to hire her, Harry."

"Yeah, yeah, but who the hell names a girl Edwina? That's like, shit—an Agatha Christie name," I point out.

"Her father's Milo Ragozy," Perry tells me, and then gives me that really insufferable smirk that tells me I'm going to have to do the digging to figure out who that is.

I hate that. I'm nosy enough to want to know, but lazy enough to want Perry to just fucking TELL me.

I pull out my cell phone and start Googling.

PERRY

Milo Ragozy came from Hungary to California in the Fifties, and set up shop on Restaurant Row in Beverly Hills when the real estate there was merely exorbitant. His first eatery was called Bela's and featured a goulash that rated four stars on the reviews. My mother had dinner there one night with the vice president of Boeing back in the day, and still considers it one of the best dates of her life, which tells you something about the food if not the man.

Ragozy sold Bela's in the mid-Seventies and started two new places: Bistro Beverly and Granada, both of which are still in business. He's also a part-owner of Medallion Blue and Hogan's Haufbrau, so the man is still big in the world of fine cuisine. I've dined at three of his establishments so far, and I have no doubt that young Miss Ragozy has eaten well all her life, lucky bitch.

So coming from a well-to-do background like this, I'm curious as to _why_ she's temping for a living. A little more digging is required, and since Harry _does_ need the hours, I'm setting the task in front of him while I contact the agency and let them know we've hired our girl.

In the meantime, I'm also debating on whether or not to take Mrs. Henshaw's case. She IS extremely wealthy, and at our current rates I could probably cover payroll on her patronage alone, but by policy I don't _do_ pet recovery work because it's a bitch, to round out the pun. I'm not a mutt person-Harry excluded-and yet the thought of picking up some extra money this month is extremely tempting. Frankly it would be nice to have a case where no one is trying to shoot anyone.

I leave Harry to do the background check on Miss Ragozy before heading out to lunch meeting with Mrs. Henshaw.

When I get to the Conquistador Café, Mrs. Henshaw is already there in a booth at the back. I slide in opposite her and smile, offering my hand because unlike certain people I could mention, I _do _have some manners.

Mrs. Henshaw is a tiny desiccated apple doll of a woman, with a hat the Queen Mother would have killed for, and about twenty thousand dollars worth of perfectly matched Chiban black pearls around her withered throat. I'm now leaning towards the case because clearly this is a woman who can afford my fees and then some.

"Mrs. Henshaw, I'm Perry Van Shrike," I reassure her. She looks me over and those blue eyes may be old but they're sharp. She smiles.

"I didn't think gumshoes came in blonde," she tells me in the foghorn tones of a lifelong smoker. "Aren't they all supposed to be dark and mysterious?"

"Only in black and white," I tell her, and she laughs; this honking sound that makes me think of throwing her a sardine. Unkind, yes, but true.

"Okay then," Mrs. Henshaw finally stops and shoots me a smile. "You're polite enough and patient enough to humor me, and that's good, Mr. Van Shrike. I want you to find my Sheila. Here's her picture—" she slides it across the table at me, "and her particulars—chip number, medical record, the works. I've gotten one note so far asking for money."

A kidnapping. Okay, this is new for me, and I suppose it shows on my face because Mrs. Henshaw gives a sigh. "This bullshit happens more than you know with show animals, Mr. Shrike, but this time I'm not playing the game. The police won't deal with it in a timely fashion because Sheila's a dog and not a person."

"This has happened before?"

"Twice to me, but never with Sheila," Mrs. Henshaw mutters. "I got my first one back after I paid. I got photos of the second one, and they weren't pretty. I want Sheila back, Mr. Van Shrike. I'm eighty-three and she's going to be my last dog. Please take the case."

I did.

ED

I went to the temp agency, filled out the paperwork to accept the job with Mr. Van Shrike, and went home, happy that I'd managed to find work that looked like it would be interesting.

Picked up a few groceries and headed home, making sure to go around back in case either Rita or Roger was visiting. When I saw the coast was clear, I took the service elevator upstairs and stepped inside, glad to be back.

Home is over the Bistro Beverly, on the third floor. Originally it was attic space, but Dad had it converted into a nice studio apartment when he bought the building, and since then, he's let me have it on the express agreement that I never let Rita or Roger know about it.

No problem with that.

I fired up my computer, made some cerviche for lunch and did a little research on my new bosses. The website was okay, and the official biography didn't mention Mr. Lockhart at all, but Mr. Van Shrike's story was impressive—former police officer, impressive case resolution record, some commendations and name-dropping. A bit more jazzy than the standard PI, that was for sure.

And the photo was a studio portrait, very flattering.

I ate the cerviche, went down to the kitchen and Delfina cornered me, told me that Mr. Lockhart had called about my reference, which made me feel good—they _were _checking up.

"He wanted to know if you cooked good," Delfina grinned at me. "Guess the name says it all, huh, Ed?"

"Comes with a built-in reputation I guess," I grin back. Delfina is one of the best chefs I've ever seen, quick and fearless, every movement a compact study in grace. She needs a tattoo that says 'born to cook' on her shoulder, with crossed spatulas under it, seriously.

"Have the Gruesome Twosome been by?" I ask.

"Not so far this week," Delfina tells me. "Gotta text from Carlos; they're at his place, with Rita bitching up a storm."

"Poor guy," I mutter. "Listen, I'm off to see dad. I'll call before I come home, okay?"

"Okay Ed—oh, and if you're going by the market, I could use some white peppercorns please."

"On my list," I give her a hug and head out to see dad, hoping he's home.


	3. Chapter 3

HARRY

Looking up information about Ed Ragozy made me hungry. All that information about restaurants and meals and movie stars and what it boiled down to was that our new secretary was the daughter of Milo 'Made-it-big' Ragozy. Perry was right—she did have a great credit rating—and a degree in Humanities. She was also a Friend of the Public Library, a regular contributor to one of the downtown homeless shelters, and seemed just a little too good for _my_ comfort.

See? That's what living on the coast has done to me. I'm automatically suspicious of things that seem to be better than they really are. Sure she might be the kind to put money in Salvation Army kettles at Christmas, but she probably had some parking tickets, or a risqué picture on Facebook or something, Everybody's got a little dirt to hide.

I should know, right?

Still, the digging did bring up a few questions. From what I'd found, this girl should be working for her daddy, not schlepping it with a temp agency. And her address—right in the middle of fancy-pants Beverly Hills. No way a temp can afford even a _studio_ in the 90210s, trust me. Something hinky was going on, and I wanted to figure out what so I could rag Perry a little about it.

I called her references, Alex Chong and Delfina Ghazy.

This part was fun, because I got to dig a little. Call me nosy, but this is the part of the job I enjoy. It's kind of pervy, sure, but I get why Perry does it. It's like checking under rocks—most of the time nothing's there, but every now and then you see something nobody was supposed to find, and there's a smug feeling in that. I'm not saying it's good, but it's necessary sometimes.

What I got in Ed's case was stonewalled. Chong and Ghazy were full of praise, but trying to pin them on details was like using wet lasagna for a hammer. All I _could_ figure out is that they were sure Ed would do a great job working for us and they were getting ready for the dinner crowd.

Restaurant people, so she'd worked for dear old Dad, or at least hung around work long enough to get to know the folks there.

So why wasn't she working there now? Even if cooking wasn't her thing, the same computer stuff she was going to be doing for Perry and me would fit in at a busy eatery. Was she on the down and out with her dad?

That could be ugly. Back where I came from, a lot of restaurants were family businesses, and by family I mean Family, which is not an aspect I wanted to get tangled up with. I was and am small change, I don't mess with anything associated with those of the Cosa Nostra persuasion. Sure, Ragozy wasn't precisely a Sicilian name, but that was minor. I wondered if Perry knew of any Mafia connections here in California.

I was also in the mood for lunch, so I decided to go see what Ed's dad had on the menu.

Hogan's Haufbrau was the closest, so I headed over, parked, and took a look at the menu posted outside the double doors. I must have gotten used to being in LA, because the idea of paying nearly ten bucks for a salad barely got to me anymore. Not that *I* eat the rabbit food, but I've had enough meals with Mr. Picky Van Shrike to know that _he_ does.

Sandwiches, steaks, some noodly-dishes that would have been at home in any East Coast diner . . . not cheap, but not quite as over the fucking moon as some of Perry's date spots.

Don't ask, and no, I've never been inside any of those places. Stakeouts take an operative to some hangdog back alleys, not four star restaurants.

I slipped inside, managed to charm a ninety pound waitress into giving me a booth and had lunch—one of the drippy sandwiches and some potato salad that nearly had me in tears, bringing back memories of eleven PM in Hoboken. Sue me; I can get sentimental over food, all right? And this place had the goods. I paid and tipped the girl enough to get a smile, which was blinding.

I'm developing a serious fear of teeth that white.

Still, her dad seemed to be doing good business. I was on my way out when I noted a little discussion going on at the maître'd booth, so being my usual nosy self, listened in.

Tall older woman, past cougar age but trying to pretend she wasn't, with Botox and Boutins visible was trying to get a table that apparently was busy. White-tooth waitress was scared of her.

"I don't _need_ to call; Milo is going to hear about this," she growls. I pretend to tie my shoe and shoot another glance at her. She's got a rock on her left hand that's only slightly smaller than Rhode fucking Island.

"Mrs. Ragozy, I'm sorry, but Mr. Bruckheimer and his staff specifically requested the table—"

Right then and there, I move into stakeout mode.

PERRY

The hardest thing to create in this town is a solid reputation. In LA, everything from the ground up is flexible, including morals, laws and mindsets. Nevertheless, I've worked hard to make sure that I deliver what I take payment for, and do so reliably, discreetly and quickly. It's the only way to keep in business, and having the added distinction of playing for the other team gives me just a hint of uniqueness.

Developing a good reputation also means handling only certain kinds of cases. I don't like divorce work; it's mind-numbingly boring and sometimes dangerous. If the wife hires me, she'll pay, but she won't be happy. If the husband hires me, half the time I have to fight to get my money. I'd much rather get the easy but gritty stuff: disappearances, deadbeat dads owing child support or alimony; con artists.

And as I mentioned, I don't do lost pets.

But again, in this case, I'm making an exception and hoping I can pull it off before Harry starts getting on my case about going to the dogs, because that's precisely the first wisecrack he's going to make. Never mind that Mrs. Henshaw is paying twice my usual rate _and _expenses, Harry will be making horrible jokes and I'll have to get bitchy with him, which . . . is our normal routine, come to think of it.

Still—one crack about leg humping and I'm making him do any garbage duty we might have to tackle.

I like dogs, actually. When I was younger, my mother had a standard poodle named Rio who was perceptive enough to dislike my father for some of the same reasons I did. I remember him having to lock Rio out in the yard before 'disciplining' me, and Rio frantically scratching at the door.

Hey, he tried to intervene; I give the dog credit for that.

Anyway, I like dogs in general. Not enough to own one myself; let's face it, I'm not interested in getting tied down to routines of walkies and treats, but I watch the Westminster and yes, I send a few bucks in to the SPCA, so helping out Mrs. Henshaw isn't completely about the money.

And from the photo, Sheila is a beauty.

I head back to my place to start searching a few databases to see if I can start checking with vets and groomers, because even I can see that an Afghan is high-maintenance, fur-wise. I also take note of the two handlers that Mrs. Henshaw uses, and interviewing them will be my first priority.

Halfway there I get two phone messages on my Bluetooth. The first one is from the temp agency confirming that Miss Ragozy has accepted the job. This is good because I can get her started on some of the back billing tomorrow. The other is from Harry, who asks me if I know anything about Miss Ragozy's mother.

"She had or has one," I point out. "Biologically that's a certainty and all I know, Harry. I may regret asking, but why?"

"Milo—if he had restaurants for the last fifty years then he's got to be ancient. May have had more than one wife, right?" Harry theorizes. The logic is sound, so I make a little grunt of agreement.

"Well the woman I'm watching right now *could* be Ed's mother, but I don't think she is," Harry mutters. "Could you check, Please, on the wife count? I'm going to see if I can get a first name here before I get back."

"Fine," I tell the idiot and hang up. By the time I get in, I'm feeling a little guilty about cutting him off, so I check.

Milo Ragozy has had three wives: Lyra Nazy, who came with him from Hungary and divorced him in the mid-sixties, Suzette Grendon, who died in the mid-eighties, and his current wife, Rita, formerly Rita Bernardini.

Interesting. Rita Bernardini is a former starlet from jiggle shows in the Eighties, and something of a publicity hound, even from before her ever-elevating marriages—all four of them.

ED

I suppose you should know a little about me. I mean, it's only fair, since you already know about Mr. Van Shrike and Mr. Lockhart.

I'm Milo Ragozy's kid. One of them, anyway. Dad's been married a few times, so I've got an interesting bunch of relatives. I've got two older step-sisters, Nina and Kate, who live in Debrecen, Hungary. They're from Dad's first marriage, to Lyra. I get along with the two of them and have visited a couple of times with Dad. Nina is married with kids and grandkids; Kate is actually Sister Kate at this beautiful tiny seminary school there.

My dad married my mom and had me back in the Eighties, and I was the only one they had, even though Dad tells me they wanted more. It's okay; I'm good with it now even if back then I really wanted a brother or sister. Mom died during surgery when I was seven, and that hurt, but Dad and I managed pretty well until three years later, when Rita Bernardini started showing up regularly at the Blue Medallion and making a play for Dad. She got under his skin while he was still hurting from losing mom, and now I can forgive him, but for a long time before that, things were hard between us.

My dad is the kind of guy who needs a wife. He's old-school and although he can run businesses and handle media and food, he hates loneliness. He loved Lyra and he loved my mom, but I think he married Rita just because she was there at the right time. Rita did make him happy in the beginning, and now they stay together mostly out of habit.

I don't like Rita much, so I stay out of her way. She doesn't like me much either, but she's smart enough not to antagonize the situation, and that's a good thing too. I could get by just fine if it was just Rita that I had to avoid.

But it's not.

Rita has a son. Roger. Roger is three years older than I am, and by some scheme Rita managed to get Dad to adopt him when they got married, so by law he's my brother. My older, very weird . . . brother.

Roger . . . has the hots for me. This is very uncomfortable and wrong in a lot of ways, believe me. Whereas I don't like Rita much, I definitely get the willies around Roger. Back when we were first becoming a family he was always hugging me a little too tightly and too long; he would follow me around and come into my room without permission—all those little things that set off alarms in the back of my head.

He's always been strange, and I'm not just saying that because I don't like him. I know for a fact that he wet his bed until he was fifteen, and that he has a streak of pyromaniac in him too. He's been thrown out of a few private schools for setting fires, and once for exposing himself in public. _That _kind of weird.

Dad doesn't care much for him either—he tried to get to know Roger in the early days, but Roger made it clear that he preferred his mom over anyone else. Me, I got locks for my bedroom and made it a point to be as far from my 'brother' as possible. That worked until I hit puberty, and Roger decided he liked me a lot more. Nothing serious ever happened, but I've been a lot MORE cautious ever since then.

Like having an apartment that neither he nor Rita know about.


	4. Chapter 4

HARRY

Whoa, Ed's mom is a bitch. I don't usually say that about people's moms—not even in 'yo mama' jokes, but the woman here is unbelievably pissy. From the fuss she's making, you'd think they were threatening to rip off her three inch acrylic nails. She finally settles down a bit, still rumbling like a wet cat and then a walking slab of meat comes over to join her. He looks at the waitress as if he wants to take a bite out of her and I can tell little Miss Boney is scared.

Fuck, I'd be scared too. Given the acne he's got, this guy is clearly pumping chemicals to get to USDA beef standards. Ed's mom waves at Goliath to follow her into the dining room after another waitress, which gives me a chance to sidle up to the little scarecrow at the station.

"You okay?" I ask, trying to project a sense of caring. It's not hard; the kid's still a little shaky.

"Yeah," she flashes me another blinder with those teeth. "I always get nervous around Mrs. Ragozy-" She leans closer to me, and adds, "and her son gives me the major creeps, but you didn't hear me say that, right?"

"Right," I nod, and then I put on my confused face. "Hey, I thought Milo Ragozy has a daughter, not a son."

The waitress looks up from stuffing menus back into the pocket on the side of the podium. "He does. Ed is his kid. That _thing_ is hers, from another marriage."

I nod and head out, not wanting to push my luck. See, that's one of those things I've learned from Perry. You can't push people when they're on the job; it makes them nervous and then they clam up. Anyway, I got some of the info, and now it's time to dig elsewhere. I get in the car and head towards Restaurant Row.

Bistro Beverly is situated between a high-end graphic design studio and one of those million dollar handbag stores. You know the ones—manikins with pointy nipples and slouchy poses standing with purses that are supposedly worth half a year's salary for the average person?

I hate those things. Not the nipples, because let's face it, I'm a guy, but the poses and the purses. What purse on the face of the fucking EARTH is worth a couple of thousand dollars? It's a PURSE for Chrissake! I don't care if the leather was blessed by the Pope and stitched by Mother Teresa herself on her deathbed, it's JUST. A. PURSE.

Rant over.

Anyway, I look the place over and it's a two-story restaurant with all the oohlala you'd expect from a joint that's going to start charging you for the air you breathe the moment you walk in. It's got blue awnings and white sort of Spanish adobe and a fancy section with wrought iron railings. I can see it's busy, and that they're not going to let someone like me—the riffraff—in, so I stroll around until I reach the nearest alley and see if I can work my way around back of the place.

Parking lot for the help in back, a loading dock, and from THIS side I can see that the Bistro Beverly isn't two stories; it's three. There's a set of windows up at the top not hidden by awnings like they are around front. Sure the blinds are down, and to anyone else it would look like I dunno—office space probably.

But since I'm looking for a residence, it fits the bill for me, and suddenly Ed's address makes a lot more sense in one way, and a lot less in another.

PERRY

I do not like Lara Blair, and I don't mean that in the catty way that implies I'm judging her hair or shoes. I don't like her because she's impatient, rude, and clearly has an opinion about my lifestyle that's she's dying to share but won't, for fear that I'll go on the attack.

I'm used to it, and I have a job to do, so I simply smile and nod while Mrs. Hendshaw's primary dog handler tells me about the last time she saw Sheila.

"Mrs. Henshaw brought her over about three days ago, for a practice session before we were to head to Monterey for a local show," Ms. Blair recites huffily. "Sheila was supposed to be one of the top two for her division. Look, can I go now?"

"And what happened?" I urge quietly, making it clear nobody's going anywhere until I get the full story.

"Then I worked with Sheila out at the new dogpark near the beach—Barky's? There's a practice ring there where you can work with dogs to get them used to the required moves. I'm going to be late for an appointment, Mr. Shrike."

"Van Shrike. Was anything off? Suspicious?" Frankly, I don't give a damn if Ms. Blair is late for her pedicure or facial or Chlamydia treatment, we're here for the duration now that I'm on the clock.

"There were a few typical lookie Lous hanging over the fence," she admits, rolling her eyes so dramatically it looks as if she's having a seizure. "A big guy and a little guy, both of them making the usual dumbass remarks. I only noticed them because they were taking lots of cell phone pictures."

"Any more of a description of them?"

Ms. Blair chuffs like a beach ball losing air. "God! Um, the big one had a tan, looked like he might be a muscle beach sort, and the little one had on a baseball cap with a Hooters logo on it, okay? That's all I saw. I took Sheila back, and the next day Mrs. Henshaw calls and tells me Sheila's gone, so I'm out the handler fee. I'm sorry the dog's gone, but that's all I know."

I look her over carefully; pretty and vain, but not bright enough to mastermind a kidnapping. I nod. "Okay, thanks. I'll be in touch if I need any more questions answered."

Ms. Blair scoops up her purse and tries to make a dramatic exit, but ends up spilling it at my feet. A few tampons, a few condoms; just another busy LA girl. She blushes, I yawn.

I move to help, but she impatiently scoops it all up and storms off as bitchily as possible.

Now it's time to check with dog handler number two. I check the time, debate about lunch, and call Harry.

"Where did you eat?" I ask him.

"Hogan's Haufbrau on Eucalptus," he tells me. "Hey, I think Ed's listed address is legit, but weird."

"Hogan's-was it any good?" I can trust Harry on food; we may not like the same things, but he's got an eye for ambience and prices. I like to think that's me polishing the edges off the idiot.

"Give it an eight out of ten. If you're heading there and see Frankenstein and his mom, that would be the other part of Ed's family." Harry tells me.

Joy.

ED

Dad's home and in a good mood, so that's a load off my mind. He's eighty-three now, but great health, something he credits to clean living, good food and a belief that Hungarian genes are indestructible.

I hug him and look around to see if Stanley's on the job. Stanley is Dad's live-in nurse, and one of the best people I know. His full name is Stanley Blaise St. John Zongo, and he's originally from Burkina-Faso. He's also Sumo-sized, but gentle as a lamb, and studying for his physician's assistant license. Stanley's been taking care of Dad for the last five years, and by coincidence, Rita's been very good to Dad for the same number of years.

Stanley is very polite to Rita.

Stanley is not afraid of Roger.

Stanley makes me feel a lot better about moving out and getting on with my life.

"Missy Ed, it is so good to see you again!" Stanley tells me as we hug. I love his voice, deep and mellow, with that French accent.

"Thanks, Stanley! Wow, Dad you're looking fine today," I tease him. Dad's taken to wearing guayabera shirts, and I'm gentle when I hug him again because he's frail.

"You too, D'wina, sweetheart," he rumbles.

Yeah, that's what he calls me. See, Edwina was my mom's choice, and Dad was never crazy about it, so to him, I'm D'wina. It's a family thing.

"I got a job," I tell him, and we head to the solarium to chat. I like this part of the house best, because Dad keeps all the plants looking beautiful here. We sit, and Stanley brings sodas. He doesn't have to do that, but he does. Dad and I both urge him to join us, but he just smiles and says he's got studying to do, then heads to his room on the other side of the house.

Dad settles in on the sofa. "So, tell me about this job—nothing against our agreement, right?"

Ah, our stipulation. Told you it wasn't hard to keep. I have no interest in joining the entertainment industry: none. Dad hates it himself because in the last fifty years he's had to deal with so much BS from actors, producers, agents, writers—you name it. He's put up with all the biggest names at his restaurants (he knows all the lousy tippers and bitchy starlets) and because of that, he and I made an agreement that I would never, NEVER have anything to do with quote, the Biz, unquote.

"No dad. I'm working for a private investigator."

His bushy eyebrows go up, and he looks interested. "So tell me about it. Gumshoe, he's got the Bogart look, all serious and vorldly?"

I have to laugh at that. "Not even close. Blonde, tall, and um, stylishly dressed."

"Gay," Dad nods. "Good. He won't be peeking down your blouse then."

"Dad!"

"Hey," he waves a heavy hand at me, "I vould rather have him gay than chasing you around. Does he have a name, a vebsight?"

I pull out my laptop and show him Mr. Van Shrike's website. Dad's impressed; he's good with the internet himself, thanks to Stanley's tutoring. He nods, and I can tell that so far, he approves both of the site and the job.


	5. Chapter 5

HARRY

I decide to wait, and see if Ed comes back to her place. I don't recognize her car—and yes, I checked for it—so I park next to the dumpster and start an impromptu stakeout. Good thing I ate lunch first. I actually sort of like stakeouts. Don't tell Perry because he won't believe it, but I do. I get some of my class work in, and catch up on the news, and grab a catnap or two while I'm at it. I have this sense for movement, so I know when to look up and spot whoever I'm tailing.

Probably a leftover from being a burglar. Who says I don't have market-oriented skills, right?

Anyway, about three hours later I notice that a little VW Bug is pulling into the slot on the other side of the recycling dumpster, so I watch and sure enough it's Ed.

She's sort of easy to recognize as I've said.

She had a bag of groceries—just think about that a moment, shall we? The girl's heading into a four star restaurant and she's carrying groceries—if that's not a tip-off that she's living here, I dunno what is.

Ed knocks on the backdoor and it opens; clearly there's a routine here.

I'm still nosy, so I jump out and head to the back myself, and knock.

The same woman as before opens it, and I give her a smile. "I'm here to see Ed?"

"She's not here," the woman says just as Ed peeks over her shoulder.

"He's one of my bosses, Delphina," Ed tells her, and I can see the cook relax a bit.

This hits my alert button. See, I know about dysfunctional relationships, and this protective mode tells me that it's not just the cook being a bitch here; there's something going on with Ed.

"You're sure . . . thorough," the cook mutters, but she's not really pissed; just a little annoyed. Ed looks a tiny bit flustered.

"Um, Mr. Lockhart. Was there something you needed?"

"Need? Nah," I tell her and give up my most disarming smile. I have a pretty good one—at least, I think so. It usually gets me beaten up and not killed. "Just trying to figure out how you handled rent in an upper market neighborhood like this."

"It's . . . exclusive," she tells me, and again, there's that tone that isn't one for a lot of questions.

"Yep. Can I help you carry that stuff up?"

It's a sneaky way to get a look at her place, sure. I know that. I add, "If Ms Ghazy gets one bag I can take the other."

It's an easy way to bring along a chaperone, and both women look at each other. They do that non-talking communication thing, and then I'm in when they smile.

Elevator in the back of the kitchen. Very sneaky, too, because it has buttons for the ground floor and one floor up, and on top of that, a key slot. Ed takes out the key and we go up to the third floor.

"Home sweet home," she tells me, and I follow the two women out into a place about fifteen times nicer than the dowdy apartment I'm renting.

PERRY

Lunch was good, in an Old World sort of way, and despite Harry's comment I didn't see anyone fitting his description of Mrs. Ragozy. She must have had some booth in the back, or maybe a private cell. I had the Arugula salad and called to make sure the second dog handler was in before I stopped by his place of business.

Doctor Raoul Gonzalez had a full waiting room judging by the filled seats and barking. I stepped around the patients and spoke to the receptionist, who had a lovebird on her shoulder.

"Oh yes, Doctor Gonzalez is expecting you," she assured me. "His office is at the end of the hall."

I found my way; the door was open and the room empty. I looked around, checked his credentials hanging on the wall. Cornell—now I was impressed.

And a little curious why someone pulling in over ninety-thousand a year would be showing dogs on the side.

"Mr. Van Shrike?" I heard someone say in a baritone like caramel, and I turned around.

Tall, aristocratic, with curly hair and an amazing pair of big brown eyes. Soulful. I plastered on a polite smile and held out my hand, pushing aside that first painful surge, because whatever else, I was on a case and the first rule of this work is not to let your testosterone blind you.

"Doctor Gonzalez," I managed.

Good handshake, not a bone-crusher, but not loose, either. He smiled, and Christ, that with the eyes was damned near too much. No wonder Mrs. Henshaw had him on her speed dial. I sure as hell would, and I don't even own a dog.

"You're here about Sheila," he murmured, and put his hands into his lab coat pockets. "What can I do to help?"

"Anything you can tell me would be useful," I replied, trying to sound professional. "Medical conditions, suspicious associates, anything out of her ordinary routine."

"Hmmm," he murmured, and gestured for me to have a seat in the chair opposite the desk. I did and took the opportunity to study him again while he thought about my request.

Blue button-down shirt under the lab coat; no tie, unbuttoned at the throat. A gold watch, no rings, clean nails and hold me back, a very nice pair of lips to go with those soulful eyes.

Clearly it's been a while since I've gotten laid.

"Sheila was due to go into season in about three weeks," Gonzalez tells me quietly. "If anyone wanted to breed her, now would be a good time to grab her. That's my suspicion, Mr. Van Shrike. Sheila has one of the better pedigrees registered, and that's well documented in the show world."

""So you think it's an inside job?" I ask, getting back to the issues that matter. He nods.

"Yes, I'm sure of it. Unfortunately, the police are treating it as a theft, and that's a low priority."

"So Mrs. Henshaw said," I reply, and he smiles at me.

It's a nice smile and right in the middle of it, I get a vibe I don't expect.

I blink, and for the first time in a long time, I'm not sure what to do.

ED

So Del and I made dinner. The THREE of us, since Mr. Lockhart said yes to staying, and I didn't really mind. There was a sale on pork chops and Del brought up a really nice cheesy rice to go with them. Yum. I love knowing everything's fresh. While I cooked, I watched Mr. Lockhart look around, and it sort of tickled me that he liked the movie posters and the collection of salt and pepper shakers from my mom.

"Nice. Where's your fire escape?"

I looked at him and he shrugged. "Building code. Have to have two routes down from an upper story."

"The back end, by the bathroom," I told him reluctantly, because I don't like people knowing there's another way up. Mr. Lockhart gives a nod and wanders around again while Del pours some wine.

The layout of my place is kind of cool even if I do say so myself—it's one big rectangle with no inner walls except for the bathroom, which Dad had installed for me, so I've set off my bedroom area in one corner with beaded curtains.

Frosted pink, because I'm girly that way.

We sit down and eat. Both Del and I are sort of surprised at how much Mr. Lockhart can put away, because he's so wiry, but he chows down, complimenting us the whole time while Del keeps flashing me grins. I can tell what she's thinking—he's harmless and cute and that she approves of anyone who likes good cooking.

I can't say I'm immune, but it's nice to know I make a good pork chop.

While we eat, Mr. Lockhart finally convinces me to call him Harry, and tells us these outrageous stories about how he came to California to be in a movie ("Seriously, I was going to be the next Colin Farell!") and how he lost his finger. (Steel doors are hell on the hands. Those and Airdales.") Del checks the time and gets back to the kitchen for the second rush, leaving me and Harry to do the dishes.

"It's a nice place. Good security and I approve of the downstairs neighbors," he tells me. I can see he's twitchy and wants a smoke, but he's too nice to ask.

"Yeah," I agree, and wipe my hands on the dishtowel. Things are tidy, and it's time for Harry to go. I hope he can pick up the hint.

"Okay, I'll just see myself out," he points over his shoulder with his thumb and I nod. "You're coming in tomorrow, right?"

"That's the arrangement, yeah," I tell him. "I'll show up with my vital documents and packed lunch, let Mr. Van Shrike run my prints and give me all those official papers to sign."

Harry cocks his head and grins. I like his grin because it's so . . . cheeky.

"So . . . what are you packing for lunch?" he begins in a tone I suspect I'm going to know very well.


End file.
